


the steampunk equivalent of a coffeeshop au

by knifewingo



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 10:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo





	the steampunk equivalent of a coffeeshop au

Jurou had quite entirely built his life on his own unwavering impassivity. He’d stared down the barrels of guns and bluffed men out of more money than any one person should ever have on just that, his own emboldened tranquility. He had never once revealed his cards. Not broken a sweat. He could drag himself bleeding from the gutter and charm a cigarette out of the first person he met. That was his _art,_ and he’d honed it like a watchmaker’s. There are things that can only be learned from gritting your teeth through pain and selling that lie like, in every conceivable sense of the phrase, your life depends on it. 

And now, here he was; in broad daylight and the heart of some gaudy, grandiose tearoom, watching the most beautiful man he’d ever set eyes on ring a hollow note from delicate porcelain and crystal tea. His breath trembling like his hands beneath the table. The touch of a quiver on his lips. 

What on _earth_ had possessed him to make that call. 

He knew Erik watched him, but he kept his eyes low; his hand written with neon splendour in his dark irises. His heart ached to meet his gaze, to relearn the exact shade of that gentle, abyssal azure - but he fought it with all his might, instead fixed upon the vibrant crimson plant, that sprawled like the coiled tails of tiny dragons between their occupied saucers and gleaming cutlery. The tearoom was a hub of noise - built like a birdcage and just as full of vibrancy and life. Bone china rang like silver bells and a hundred voices ebbed together like the tide. Awash with movement and joy, and the sweet warmth of the bakery seeping through everything. The light cascaded golden through the glass ceiling, and where there weren't tables, and people, stood preened exotic plants. The whole building seemed to teeter on the edge of Tasteless, and yet somehow, through diligence and determination on the staff or patrons’ fronts, they had reigned it back to an archaic, but honest delight. 

He wouldn’t have imagined this as the place for Erik, with all its loud, eclectic distractions; yet somehow even here he managed to emit that same strange calm that had first so captivated Jurou.The noise seemed to bend around him, that even as the world whirled he occupied as ever that space he had found and claimed as his own. His eyes were cast down now, watching the topaz whirlpool he had created in his cup, his soft lip pinched between his teeth. _Soft_ , he remembered, and cool and sweet and tender, and Jurou hadn’t been able to shake the memory of it, of _him_ , from his mind since. That feathersoft ebony hair ran like silk over his shoulders, shone in the sunlight. Stiff backed, Jurou took a deep breath. Why here. He was going to make a fool of himself and anyone could be here to see it - of course, he’d already accepted that he was a fool, and now every second that passed had become a challenge not to show it. 

“These places are usually busy for a reason,” Erik said, finally. He was smiling - there was a note of playfulness in his teasing, and a glint in his eyes when he finally looked up that sent a silver shiver down Jurou’s spine. It took a moment for the gears of his mind to click together - he let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, picked up the gently steaming cup. He ran the tea over his tongue like fine red - what was he _doing_ , incapable of just shutting down and living even now - flavour as delicate as the porcelain that held it, subtle citrus and a whisper of spice. Jurou hummed softly. 

“Ceylon?” 

Erik laughed, once, perhaps out of surprise - a strange, soft exclamation, almost breathless. 

“Good man,” he grinned, watching as Jurou carefully replaced the cup back at the heart of its saucer. Erik’s other hand had found his, against the table - now, those elegant fingertips and immaculate nails etched electric lines over his slender bones. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hayashi-san?” 

Jurou shrugged, the ice that had gripped him melting in the heat that had suddenly stoked itself in his core. “What can I say?” He smiled, as smoothly as he could. Humility had never become him - fortunately, smugness had. 

“A tongue of many talents,” Erik answered, absently; though his eyes were on Jurou’s face they were clearly elsewhere, retracing memories in the lines of his shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones - the same cheekbones that had now flushed bright enough even to rival the odd plant that dominated their table. Jurou’s teeth clicked together when he finally had the presence of mind to shut his mouth and he choked on the knot that had suddenly leapt to his throat. Erik stifled a bubble of laughter with his palm and apologised. “That isn’t at all what I meant,” he chuckled. “But now you mention it-”

“Well, I’m glad someone finally appreciates it,” Jurou managed, finally, through his tight throat and racing heart. He’d flirted with people in every country on the damn planet; how was it that now, for the first time, when it felt like it actually _mattered_ , his confidence had snuck under a trash can and self immolated. He ran a hand through his hair, scraped it over his eyes. Everything was so easyonly yesterday, now, he found himself wondering how he’d ever done anything at all. The same tired melancholy that had suddenly drowned him seemed to have touched Erik too - and though it left Jurou agitated, frustrated - it had settled to sadness in Erik’s eyes. The hand that had lingered on his curled inwards, like a drying leaf. Carefully Jurou turned over his palm, and cradled the Baron’s hand in his own. Erik watched, distant, his sleek shoulders rising heavily; if Jurou crooked his head at a certain angle, Erik’s eyes even appeared stung. With each breath he took, he seemed to weigh and discard words, until finally, he found his voice again. 

“Hayashi-san, I-”

“Erik,” it took every ounce of willpower he had not to reach over the table and take his chin. “Please, please call me Jurou.” 

The next breath he took was obviously shaken, and louder than he could have intended, but he repeated his name under his breath. “ _Jurou_ ,” he purred, softly and to himself, tasting every note of it until it was patterned onto his tongue. Erik looked up at him again, as if he inked every detail of his being into his mind. Jurou’s eyes followed his as they roved, hoping that, if he were to catch them, perhaps he could hold them forever. Or at least, for a moment. He’d never been one for _forever_ , but seeing Erik, well… if anything was to change his mind on the matter, it would almost certainly have been him. 

“I, ah, I’m sorry, for how I left you the other night. Mornings don't always agree with me and I - I had to be home. I wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry.” He stammered. Uncertainty, hurt, didn’t suit the dark softness of his voice, nor the flush of shame in his smooth cheeks. It didn’t take Jurou a moment to decide, to close his hand around Erik’s, to lock their fingers together. He leaned closer, finally reaching out and tilting Erik’s chin so that their eyes met. 

“You know I’d have done the same,” he murmured, with a sincerity that, at any other moment would have been hugely misplaced. “I _would_ have done the same if you hadn’t beat me to it. Please. We’re here now.” 

Erik leaned into his touch like a cat.

“You were sleeping so soundly,” he whispered, seemingly lost in the memory. There wasn’t much of the evening Jurou hadn’t replayed over in his mind - other, of course, than the feeling of absence he’d awoken with. Of course, it had been irrational - and his first thought should have been the one he eventually forced himself to have - what was he still doing there. But no, he hadn’t been able to escape it, the hollow in his arms and against his chest in which, his half awake mind had surmised was perfectly Erik sized. The sheets still held a breath of his scent; cool, delicately bittersweet, like burned sugar drowned in brandy. In the end, it had been that which had haunted him the most, twinned with the memory of his deep, melting kisses.

Jurou did his best to hide the sudden surge of longing that threatened to drown him now beneath a wry smirk.

“ _You_ certainly know how to wear a man out. You’ll have to show me, again, sometime.” 

Erik shook his head, once, faintly.

“Are you, entirely incapable of being a gentleman?” he drawled.

“Pathologically.” 


End file.
